Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl - The Eternity Code

No, she couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t even allow herself to think it.

Madame Ko tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘You are not ready. I should not let you leave. You are too emotionally involved to be an effective bodyguard.’

‘Please, Madame,’ said Juliet.

Her sensei considered it for two long minutes.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Go.’

Juliet was gone before the word finished echoing around the square, and heaven help any carpet merchant who blocked her path.

THE SPIRO NEEDLE, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA

Jon Spiro took the Concorde from Heathrow to O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. A stretch limousine ferried him downtown to the Spiro Needle, a sliver of steel and glass rising eighty-six storeys above the Chicago skyline. Spiro Industries was located on floors fifty through to eighty-five. The eighty-sixth floor was Spiro’s personal residence, accessible either by private lift or helipad.

Jon Spiro hadn’t slept for the entire journey, too excited by the little cube sitting in his briefcase. The head of his technical staff was equally excited when Spiro informed him what this harmless-looking box was capable of, and immediately scurried off to unravel the C Cube’s secrets.

Six hours later he scurried back to the conference room for a meeting.

‘It’s useless,’ said the scientist, whose name was Doctor Pearson.

Spiro swirled an olive in his martini glass.

‘I don’t think so, Pearson,’ he said. ‘In fact, I know that little gizmo is anything but useless. I think that maybe you’re the useless one in this equation.’

Spiro was in a terrible mood. Arno Blunt had just called to inform him of Fowl’s survival. When Spiro was in a dark mood people had been known to disappear off the face of the earth, if they were lucky.

Pearson could feel the stare of the conference room’s third occupant bouncing off his head. This was not a woman you wanted angry with you: Pearson knew that if Jon Spiro decided to have him thrown out the window, this particular individual would have no problem signing an affidavit swearing that he had jumped.

Pearson chose his words carefully. ‘This device — ’

‘The C Cube. That’s what it’s called. I told you that, so use the name.’

‘This C Cube undoubtedly has enormous potential. But it’s encrypted.’

Spiro threw the olive at his head scientist. It was a humiliating experience for a Nobel Prize winner.

‘So break the encryption. What do I pay you guys for?’

Pearson could feel his heart rate speeding up. ‘It’s not that simple. This code. It’s unbreakable.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Spiro, leaning back in his ox-blood leather chair. ‘I’m putting two hundred million a year into your department, and you can’t break one lousy code, set up by a kid?’

Pearson was trying not to think about the sound his body would make hitting the pavement. His next sentence would save him or damn him.

‘The Cube is voice-activated, and coded to Artemis Fowl’s voice patterns. Nobody can break the code. It’s not possible.’

Spiro did not respond; it was a signal to continue.

‘I’ve heard of something like this. We scientists theorize about it. An Eternity Code, it’s called. The code has millions of possible permutations and, not only that, it’s based on an unknown language. It seems as though this boy has created a language that is spoken only by him. We don’t even know how it corresponds to English. A code like this is not even supposed to exist. If Fowl is dead, then I’m sorry to say, Mister Spiro, the C Cube died with him.’

Jon Spiro stuck a cigar into the corner of his mouth. He did not light it. His doctors had forbidden it. Politely.

‘And if Fowl were alive?’

Pearson knew a lifeline when it was being thrown to him.

‘If Fowl were alive, he would be a lot easier to break than an Eternity Code.’

‘OK, Doc,’ said Spiro. ‘You’re dismissed. You don’t want to hear what’s coming next.’

Pearson gathered his notes and hurried for the door. He tried not to look at the face of the woman at the table. If he didn’t hear what came next, he could kid himself that his conscience was clear. And if he didn’t actually see the woman at the conference table, then he couldn’t pick her out of a line-up.

‘It looks like we have a problem,’ said Spiro to the woman in the dark suit.

The woman nodded. Everything she wore was black. Black power suit, black blouse, black stilettos. Even the Rado watch on her wrist was jet black.

‘Yes. But it’s my kind of problem.’

Carla Frazetti was god-daughter to Spatz Antonelli, who ran the downtown section of the Antonelli crime family. Carla operated as liaison between Spiro and Antonelli, possibly the two most powerful men in

Chicago. Spiro had learned early in his career that businesses allied to the Mob tended to flourish.

Carla checked her manicured nails.

‘It seems to me that you only have one option: you nab the Fowl kid and squeeze him for this code.’

Spiro sucked on his unlit cigar, thinking about it.

‘It’s not that straightforward. The kid runs a tight operation. Fowl Manor is like a fortress.’

Carla smiled. ‘This is a thirteen-year-old kid we’re talking about, right?’

‘He’ll be fourteen in six months,’ said Spiro defensively. ‘Anyway, there are complications.’

‘Such as?’

‘Arno is injured. Somehow Fowl blew his teeth out.’

‘Ouch,’ said Carla, wincing.

‘He can’t even stand in a breeze, never mind head up an operation.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘In fact, the kid incapacitated all my best people. They’re on a dental plan too. It’s going to cost me a fortune. No, I need some outside help on this one.’

‘You want to contract the job to us?’

‘Exactly. But it’s got to be the right people. Ireland is an old-world kind of place. Wise guys are going to stick out a mile. I need guys who blend in and can persuade a kid to accompany them back here. Easy money.’

Carla winked. ‘I read you, Mister Spiro.’

‘So, you got guys like that? Guys who can take care of business without drawing attention to themselves?’

‘The way I see it, you need a metal man and a monkey?’

Spiro nodded, familiar with Mob slang. A metal man carried the gun, and a monkey got into hard-to-reach places.

‘We have two such men on our books. I can guarantee they won’t attract the wrong kind of attention in Ireland. But it won’t be cheap.’

‘Are they good?’ asked Spiro.

Carla smiled. One of her incisors was inset with a tiny ruby.

‘Oh, they’re good,’ she replied. ‘These guys are the best.’

THE METAL MAN

THE INK BLOT TATTOO PARLOUR,

DOWNTOWN CHICAGO

Loafers McGuire was having a tattoo done. A skull’s head in the shape of the ace of spades. It was his own design and he was very proud of it. So proud, in fact, that he’d wanted the tattoo on his neck. Inky

Burton, the tattooist, managed to change Loafers’ mind, arguing that neck tattoos were better than a name tag when the cops wanted to ID a suspect. Loafers relented. ‘OK,’ he’d said. ‘Put it on my forearm.’

Loafers had a tattoo done after every job. There wasn’t much skin left on his body that still retained its original colour. That was how good

Loafers McGuire was at his job.

Loafers’ real name was Aloysius, and he hailed from the Irish town of Kilkenny. He’d come up with the nickname Loafers himself, because he thought it sounded more Mob-like than Aloysius. All his life, Loafers had wanted to be a mobster, just like in the movies. When his efforts to start a Celtic mafia had failed Loafers came to Chicago.